


Wayland 2002

by wheel_pen



Series: Immortals [5]
Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3455696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One chapter of the Wayland clan’s life ends, while another begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wayland 2002

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The Immortals are powerful Earth beings who have children with mortals and are supposed to take care of them. The different clans are inspired by various movies and TV shows.  
> 2\. The bad words are censored; that’s just how I do things.  
> 3\. I own nothing, and I appreciate the chance to play in these universes.

_Naples, Florida, 2002_

The neo-Italianate Florida mansion was not really meant for this kind of gathering. Its rooms were large, yes, but they flowed into one another, with partial walls and kitchen islands and wetbars breaking the lines of sight. It was a house designed for mingling at cocktail parties, not for rows of precisely-aligned folding chairs all facing a single point. Nonetheless, one could be reasonably certain that every adult present had made sure they could catch each word of the man who had just finished speaking.

“That concludes the specific bequests from Ms. Kincannon,” the man went on after a moment, professional and solemn in his black suit. “Now, Ms. Wayland will explain the position of her company’s account with the family.”

The lawyer stepped aside and allowed Gillian to take his spot at the front of the room, at the focus of all gazes. Her grey suit was elegant but understated, her hair soft despite the humidity. The sheaf of high-quality paper she held in her hands didn’t waver.

“Good afternoon,” she told the group, polite but appropriate for the circumstances. For most of them it was not a particularly good afternoon at all. “I’m Gillian Wayland from the Wayland Private Investment Company. You may know our name from the monetary assistance we have offered many of you over the years. These gifts have included such expenses as college tuition, payment of medical bills, the purchase of property, and travel expenses for major trips.” The audience watched her attentively, remembering well the events she spoke of. “However, now that our original client, Lillian Kincannon, is deceased, the account for the family will be discontinued.”

There was some murmuring at this announcement, though it couldn’t have been an unexpected occurrence, and Gillian pressed on to allay their concerns. “We will continue to honor all requests thus far received. For example, college expenses for all current, living members of the family will be paid, regardless of when they are incurred.” She indicated one of the papers she held. “I have a list of those defined as current, living members of the family, which I have given to Mr. Donaldson,” she added, nodding at the lawyer. Best to let him deal directly with the family from now on, if possible. “However, no new requests will be accepted. If you have any questions about the status of your request with the Company, please feel free to talk to me later, or to contact our offices in New York.

“Finally,” she went on, “as part of the settlement of Ms. Kincannon’s account, I have a check for an equal amount for each current, living member of the family. Adults can access their funds immediately, while those for minors have been placed into a trust fund accessible when they turn eighteen. I’ll let Mr. Donaldson distribute the checks.” Gillian understood that now, most people were thinking about how much those checks were for—the whole exercise of reading the will was all about money, really, who got what out of the deceased’s estate. Oh, many of them truly loved Lillian Kincannon and were sad at her passing; but the larger the family grew, the more distant the younger branches had become from their root. What would twelve-year-old Amber Price really remember of the great-grandmother she had only seen twice a year?

But Gillian remembered. She remembered a little girl with brown hair in braids, the freckles contributed by her mother dusted across her nose, spinning wildly imaginative stories whenever she visited their home, her talent for inventing a colorful life history for the most mundane person or object obvious from the very start. She was irrepressible, mischievous, lively—not even the Great Depression that overshadowed her young adult years could dampen her enthusiasm for her creative arts. That was when people needed an escape from their dreary lives the most, and Cal had published her first novels himself—murder mysteries, which seemed an odd way to escape perhaps, but they were set in the glamorous houses of the rich, full of sparkling wit and clever twists and characters who were fully drawn with a single well-chosen phrase. She was called by some “the American Agatha Christie,” though she never achieved _quite_ the same level of fame.

Lillian had continued to publish through World War II and received many a fan letter attesting to the spirits she had raised; but after the war she lost her taste for books about death and mainly just wrote for her own entertainment, sending copies of her work to Cal for his enjoyment. Gillian far preferred the wit of Lillian’s mysteries to the gruesome, serial killer-infatuated books that saturated the market these days; but Lillian had retired quietly decades ago and likely few if any of her neighbors in this south Florida enclave knew of her former fame. Lillian had lived to be ninety-two, remarkable considering the age she was born into, though not remarkable considering her parentage. All five of her children had some writing talent and some of her grandchildren as well; but none had reached the heights of elegance of their ancestor. At least, not yet; and if they ever did so, they would have to do it without the help of the Waylands. Though some of their kind had different philosophies, Cal and Gillian believed that one couldn’t hang on to a human family forever.

“I just want to say,” Gillian added, surprising those who thought she was finished, “that Ms. Kincannon was a very well-respected and… loved client, and I’m very sorry for your loss.” She sat back down quickly, telling herself to hold back the tears that no one here would understand.

Well, almost no one. “Miss… Wayland?” asked a tentative voice later, as they milled around the buffet table. Gillian turned and acted as though she didn’t quite recognize the sixtyish woman standing behind her. “I’m Sandra Black,” she introduced, shaking Gillian’s hand. “Lillian was my mother.”

“Of course.” Gillian smiled fondly—but not _too_ fondly. She didn’t want to look suspicious.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, the last few weeks,” the woman went on, idly toying with her glass, “remembering stories, family events. I remember my grandmother Rose very well,” she went on as Gillian listened attentively, “telling stories about growing up in Ireland, the voyage here, working in the textile mills. I was eighteen when she died. I remember my grandfather, too,” she continued, focusing more on Gillian now. “At least, I _think_ I do. I remember visiting him in New York City. He had eyes like… well, very much like that young man who came to see my mother at the hospital. My grandfather’s last name was Wayland, I remember. I guess I was just wondering how we were all related.”

Gillian smiled again, allowing more of the warmth she felt to shine through. In their archives was a lovely picture of a young girl, all pigtails and gingham, sitting on her grandfather’s lap—she was too young to realize the man did not at all look old enough to be someone’s grandfather. “Your grandfather was Calvin Wayland, the founder of the Company,” Gillian explained, carefully as she had to. “His great-grandson, his namesake, Cal, was the one who came to the hospital.” Saying good-bye to his last mortal daughter of that era, his youngest. That chapter had ended, even as they began a new one. “I’m his wife.”

“Oh, how lovely,” Sandra gushed. “Let’s see, that would make him my… hmm…”

“I think it’s first cousin, once removed,” Gillian determined, “if you ignore the half, as you only have Calvin Wayland in common, and not his wife.”

Sandra nodded, thinking this over. “Yes, I’d heard there was some kind of—well, you know how family gossip can be. I remember my great-aunts sitting around talking when they thought I wasn’t listening.” Gillian looked interested, encouraging her to continue. “Well, it just seems like—I guess my grandparents, Calvin Wayland and Rose, weren’t actually married?”

“No,” Gillian confirmed, since she already knew. “I guess it was quite risqué at the time, but—Calvin Wayland made sure he always took care of his children.” From birth to death.

“Yes,” Sandra agreed thoughtfully. “Yes, his company has been very good to us.”

“And don’t worry, all the current arrangements are going to continue,” Gillian went on. She felt a little crass bringing the conversation back to money, but otherwise it was drifting towards melancholy. She didn’t want to inadvertently reveal something she shouldn’t, after all. “Mr. Donaldson has a letter with your check that explains your status now.”

Sandra stiffened just slightly, picking up Gillian’s change in tone. “Yes, it’s very thoughtful of them to send you personally. Will you be staying in Naples long?” A polite inquiry, nothing more.

“Unfortunately, no,” Gillian replied. “I have to fly back to New York tonight.”

“I’m sure you must be very busy,” Sandra agreed. She shook Gillian’s hand again. “It’s been lovely to meet you.”

“You, too,” Gillian assured her, and for a moment she was seeing that girl in pigtails and gingham again and wishing she could explain where they’d met before. But that was a ridiculous notion, and Gillian let go of her hand and allowed the woman to move away.

This new age would be different, Gillian knew. People expected to have contact with their relatives—gone were the years when people would accept the “mysterious uncle who sends money” story. There were digital cameras, the Internet, and lawyers now, and their family would have to come up with new ways of existing without awkward questions getting in the way.

Lillian Kincannon was their last link to the simpler, if not better, era. It was time to move forward.

And tonight Gillian intended to do just that. What she had said about leaving that night was a lie. She actually intended to stay in Naples for several more days.

Cal’s call caught her standing before the mirror in her hotel room, holding up two different dresses indecisively. “Hi,” he said softly. “How are you?”

“I really don’t feel like going out,” Gillian replied wearily, her voice edging closer to a whine.

“Then don’t,” Cal suggested lightly. “Take a long, hot bath, curl up with a book.”

This didn’t suit Gillian either. “Then I’d just have to go out tomorrow night,” she pointed out. “I’d rather get it over with and come home.”

She could hear the smile in Cal’s voice. “You should take _some_ enjoyment in it, don’t you think?”

Gillian shrugged even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m just not in the mood, I guess.” A moment later she asked, “How’s everyone there? How’s Lennox?”

“He’s fine,” Cal assured her. “He was playing with those foam blocks today, it was adorable. I have some video.”

“Awww!” Gillian cooed. “Can you upload it to me?”

“That’s _definitely_ not going to get you in the mood to go out,” Cal pointed out, mock-stern.

Gillian sighed. “Well which dress should I wear?” she asked of him. “The red or the silver?”

“Silver,” he decided, after a moment’s thought.

She was surprised. “I thought you liked the red one better.”

“I do,” he agreed, remembering the slinky red dress fondly. “But the silver one is flashier, more eye-catching. You don’t want to sit in the corner all night, do you?”

“Good point,” she conceded, choosing the metallic sequined sheath instead. She looked like a walking disco ball in it—but it sure did get attention.

“So go do your hair and your make-up,” Cal said persuasively, “and put on your shiny dress and your shoes and your jewelry, and go out to the hottest club in town and have a little fun.”

Gillian harrumphed slightly at this last part. “Sandra Black asked about you today,” she reported. “Said she remembered visiting her grandfather in New York.”

“Let’s talk about that when you get home.” His tone strove to make the comment feel like a promise, not a dismissal.

Well, it was _his_ daughter who had died, after all. Even for them such things were hard to process. “Okay, I’ll go out tonight, and I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you. Bye.”

**

She chose a club called ULTRA. It looked a little young for her, judging by the pictures on the website, more a college-age dance club with loud music and bikini nights. But Gillian didn’t care too much where she ended up as long as it was crowded. Besides, in her opinion, she looked a _lot_ better than the usual crowd they chose to immortalize in their website gallery.

She packed her ID, credit card, some cash, her hotel key, her cell phone, a couple items of make-up, and two condoms in her tiny, shiny silver purse. Everything was functional except the condoms. She took a cab to the night club and climbed out near the entrance, not at the end of the line that snaked down the block. All those waiting to be granted entrance by the bouncers were young and slightly tacky—big hair, lots of make-up, clothes in an array of neon colors with ostentatious ruffles or cut-aways. The guys wore logo t-shirts or, at best, polo shirts. Something about it lacked the classiness of the better New York City clubs. Gillian’s flashing silver minidress was almost subtle in comparison.

Walking with easy-going confidence, Gillian went directly to the entrance from which loud pop music blared. It was music for the masses, whatever played on the Top 40 stations and could be remixed for a stronger backbeat. The bouncer was huge, with biceps like basketballs—Gillian considered making a play for him, knowing how much it would amuse Cal, but then she realized he probably wouldn’t get off work until early in the morning, and she didn’t want to wait that long.

Gillian handed him her ID, affecting a bored pose while he looked her over. There were half a dozen young people standing in the line in front of him, clamoring for his attention, who had been waiting to get in for an hour or more—but clearly Gillian was someone special, with her attitude of familiar arrogance. She could be a model, or a visiting socialite—someone who had done this many times before. Just when Gillian thought she might have to apply a little supernatural charm, he handed her back her ID and let her in.

She headed straight for the bar, to orient herself. It was hot, crowded, loud, smoky, and dark, as expected—not an environment she enjoyed most of the time. But every once in a while, when she had a purpose, an excuse, it _was_ kind of exciting to be here—anonymous amidst all this energy, all these connections being forged and missed, pretending that she was really one of them just for a little while.

“Cranberry and vodka,” she shouted at the bartender. The noise level was such that it didn’t even seem like she was yelling—her voice was barely audible, even to herself. The bartender had a lot of experience reading lips, however. Gillian turned around and scanned the crowd while she waited. _Hey, I’m easy_ , she tried to project, metaphorically at least. Literally would come later, if she had no luck for a while. _Take me home, I’ll show you a good time._ Don’t even bother with home, really—a car was fine, or a hotel room. All her things were packed up at her own hotel suite, in case she needed to volunteer that location—she could slip out in the morning if need be, leaving someone asleep in the bed. But it would be more convenient to go somewhere else.

It didn’t take long for her to catch someone’s eye. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and he was wearing a button-down shirt which put him a league beyond most of the other man-boys here.

“I bet I can guess your name,” he opened with, leaning on the bar beside her.

Really, what was wrong with “hello” these days? Why did everyone feel like they needed to have a clever line? It was pretty obvious this wasn’t an intellectual environment. Still, Gillian attuned her body language to show interest. “Okay. Go ahead.”

He looked her up and down, which probably had nothing to do with guessing her name. “Kelly,” he finally said. Her eyes widened slightly, because she’d thought this was the setup for a bad pun. Nope, he was really trying to guess her name—how quaint. He misinterpreted the expression and grinned. “Am I right or what?”

“Well, it’s Katie, actually,” Gillian lied, “but you were amazingly close.”

His name was Luis (so he said). She asked what he did and he replied that what he _did_ didn’t matter—it was what he could _do_ for her that was important. The line was so cheesy, but Gillian laughed anyway, because Luis was right—she didn’t care about his job, his education, his favorite sports team, his relationship with his mother. They weren’t trying to build a future together, after all—they just wanted to have a little fun tonight, or Luis did anyway, and to convince each other that neither was a psycho who was going to demand more than the other was willing to give. All Gillian wanted to know, ultimately, was his name and maybe an identifying number of some kind, in case she felt like contacting him in nine months or so.

So they had a couple drinks and talked about nothing—the song playing, popular movies and TV shows. Enough to show that they were both normal, agreeable people—no passionate political diatribes or off-puttingly kooky philosophies. They scooted closer and closer, with Luis’s hand brushing her arm and her leg leaning against his. He seemed like a nice guy. And he could do a lot worse than Gillian, she knew. So it didn’t take long for him to suggest going back to his place, “where it was quieter.”

He lived in an okay part of town, in an apartment in a housing complex where every single building looked exactly alike. It was home to a lot of singles and unmarried couples, the kind of young people who filled the city’s shops and restaurants as clerks and servers. No families. But largely respectable people, with paying jobs. That was what Gillian surmised anyway. Not that it mattered much to her.

She tried to show Luis a good time. He tried to show _her_ a good time, too, but Gillian felt that she had been more successful in fulfilling that promise, frankly. Which wasn’t uncommon in random encounters like this one—one’s standards were often lowered when you didn’t see the other person as a potential life mate, at least in Gillian’s opinion. Nonetheless, it was all _fine_ and left the neighbors in no doubt of what they were up to.

Luis fell asleep somewhat later. Gillian pretended to be asleep, too, waiting until she was certain he was out cold. She could always give him a little help if he started to wake up at an inopportune time. Gillian slipped her clothes back on and touched up her hair and make-up, then reached for Luis’s wallet in the back pocket of his discarded pants. She memorized the drivers’ license she found there—his name really _was_ Luis—then put it all back the way it had been. With a final glance at the sleeping man, Gillian snuck from the apartment into the night. She called a cab once outside and within an hour was walking back through the lobby of her hotel, still early enough to avoid explicit walk-of-shame implications.

She approached the night manager, who gave her a professional smile. “I’m in room 2710,” Gillian began, her voice quiet in the empty lobby. “I’m checking out Tuesday, and I’d prefer not to be disturbed until then, unless I send for something.”

“Of course, ma’am,” the young man answered promptly. “2710, not to be disturbed.”

“That’s right,” Gillian confirmed. “And could you please send room service up right away with a fruit basket, a bread basket, and some whole milk?”

This was a classy—and expensive—place and the manager didn’t even blink at her request, two AM or not. “Of course, ma’am, right away.”

“Thank you.”

Gillian rode the elevator up to her floor alone, unnaturally still to any observer. The high heels she wore should have left her feet aching by now, and her energy should be flagging after her exertions. She should feel light-headed from the alcohol and second-hand smoke and the throbbing music. That was how a normal person would have felt, anyway, but Gillian was far from normal. If she seemed to lack energy at the moment, it was only because she was conserving it for later, and trying to pay attention to the miraculous process occurring inside her.

Once in her hotel suite Gillian pulled off her smoky dress and wrapped herself in the complimentary bathrobe supplied by the hotel. She washed her make-up off and put her shoes and jewelry away, and she was just digging her e-book reader out of her bag when there was a knock on the door from room service. The bright-eyed young woman rolled in a cart laden with Gillian’s order and began to set it up on the main table.

“Thank you,” Gillian told her. “Could you have this dry-cleaned, please?” She handed the woman her silver dress on a hanger. “It’s been exposed to a lot of smoke and I don’t want to keep it in here. Also,” she went on, perusing the room service menu, “I’ll have the Farmers’ Market breakfast tomorrow at eight AM, but _no_ coffee or tea—instead I want whole milk and three fruit juices, whatever you have available.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course,” the woman answered, taking the dress away. Gillian gave her a generous tip and locked the door firmly behind her, hanging the “do not disturb” sign outside for good measure.

First, Gillian would eat. Then, she would take a warm—but not hot—shower. Then she would lie in bed and read for a while, and maybe call Cal at some point. That would be her life for the next three days, in fact—eating, reading, watching a little TV, maybe some movies on demand, and “taking it easy,” allowing her body to do its work internally. That was the way they usually did things, anyway, though technology had certainly improved her entertainment options. A hundred years ago she just had books; now she had dozens of books on one small device, the TV with its built-in video store, her laptop with movies loaded on it and the whole Internet at her fingertips—she was almost beginning to regret that she had to uproot herself in just three days.

**

Three days later, as promised, Gillian checked out. But she didn’t head straight to the airport—she had to make a significant detour first and she drove her rental car down to Miami, down to one of the most popular beaches. She stood out slightly, crossing the boardwalk in a demure grey suit and sensible heels while all around her young hardbodies strutted their stuff in tiny bikinis or bright trunks. Well, Gillian wasn’t there to impress any of _them_.

Troy’s Surf Shack was a solid-looking concrete structure with ocean murals covering its cinderblock walls and an open front that let the warm sea breezes flow to the very back of the colorful, surprisingly extensive space. It was somehow authentic yet touristy at the same time, legendary among the locals for secret surfboard wax recipes and tropical drink mixes but also sporting an array of Miami-branded t-shirts, magnets, and snowglobes. Behind the main counter lounged the proprietor, Troy himself, an almost preternaturally handsome blond in a lime-green tank top and hibiscus-covered board shorts. He seemed to be the essence of the beach-living surfer, down to the faraway look in his blue eyes, like he was thinking of the perfect wave he’d once had—or still dreamed of having.

His thoughts snapped back to the present when he saw Gillian approaching and he rose from his seat, nodding just slightly in acknowledgement. “Ma’am,” he greeted.

Gillian missed the traditional forms of address, personally, but she did have to admit that they would sound odd to any customers who happened by. “Sir,” she returned.

“Your business here is completed?” he surmised politely.

“Yes, thank you for your hospitality,” Gillian replied. “It was much appreciated.” No matter that she had never once set foot in the beach-front complex occupied by Troy and his family; he had given her permission to not only stay in his territory, but also to pick up a mark there.

“You’re flying out from Miami?” he questioned. “Private plane?” Of course. Troy reached under the counter and pulled out one of his shop’s signature bright blue-and-green bags, laden with goods. “Just a few little souvenirs,” he offered modestly.

Gillian took the bag respectfully and didn’t glance at the contents. She suspected it would contain more of the handmade seashell jewelry and beach paintings by local artists, and not so much of the sand-filled magnets shaped like flip-flops. In other words, the good stuff. “Thank you,” she told him, with perhaps more seriousness than an ordinary transaction would entail.

“Have a safe journey,” he added, and with that she was dismissed.

Gillian left gratefully. Troy was really one of the more pleasant of their kind, but it was always uncomfortable being in someone else’s territory. So many people retired to Florida these days, though, that Gillian and other members of her family had had plenty of cause recently to travel there. This was the first time since the new cycle began, however, and Gillian could feel the change in the air. Everyone became a little more territorial during the cycle, just on instinct. She would be glad to get back home.


End file.
